


him whom my soul loveth

by BarefootGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, proper use of religious poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:36:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarefootGirl/pseuds/BarefootGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, Cas comes home.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(AU S9 for out-of-denial Destiel)</p>
            </blockquote>





	him whom my soul loveth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ObsessionIsAPerfume](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessionIsAPerfume/gifts).



Cas –not Castiel, never again Castiel, the patronymic gone forever, gone with his Grace, gone with his Father who art not in Heaven nor anywhere else he could find- stood at the edge of the road, and looked up at the structure before him, the stone and concrete draped with the lightest frosting of snow, thinner than what lay on the ground. 

He had been there before, of course.  Could remember the way, once he made his way to town through a series of hitched rides and bus tickets paid out with carefully hoarded cash.  He had been able to walk the road he had been driven along, something pulling him there as though tied to his rib cage and drawn through gentle, urgent hands.  There had been no need for hesitation, for thought, merely the following of instincts.

But now that he was here, he felt uncertainty. Guilt.

Fear.

_“I need you.”_

_“We’re family.”_

There is nothing left to trust, nothing left to fall on, save those words. He is drowning, and they are the only rope he can reach.  The door is cold under his fingertips, sending a shudder down his spine.

 

 

 o0o

He must have knocked, or they have some system to know when someone approaches, because the door opens.

“Castiel?”  The prophet – _Kevin Tran,_ his memory supplies him. _Advanced Placement,_ another memory whispers, and then is gone – grabs at his shoulders, even as his legs finally give way, every ache and pain he’d shoved to the side rushing back with the warm, familiar-scented air.  “Guys!  C’mere, hurry!”

There is shouting, and the next few minutes are a blur.  He vaguely recognizes Sam’s hands replacing Kevin’s on his shoulders, easing him onto a chair, and there is the higher-pitched chatter of a woman’s voice answering the younger Winchester’s calls for soup, for a blanket.

He doesn’t want soup, although his stomach is tight with what he vaguely remembers is hunger.  He isn’t cold, although his bones still feel the autumn wind wrapped around them.  He lifts his head, trying to see over Sam’s shoulder.  Kevin is there, and a red-headed woman he knows – the way of knowing lost to him, although the information remains – is Charlie.

And Dean.  Standing in the doorway.  Arms at his side, eyes wide, chin lifted and mouth open slightly as though he were about to say something and had forgotten the words.  He does not rush to Cas’s side, does not offer care or concern.  He merely watches.  And then he is gone.

 

 

  o0o

Cas eats his soup, numbly, and allows them to drape a blanket over his shoulders, but he feels none of it.  The guilt weighs him down, and he sinks.

“I’m sorry,” he says to anyone who will listen.  “I’m sorry,” when they take the empty bowl away, when Sam’s earnest expression bends down to touch his shoulder again, when Kevin lingers, before stepping away.  “I’m sorry.”

There is nothing else inside him except guilt and apologies.

“C’mon.”  The others are gone, but Dean is there.  His face is stern, his eyes shuttered.  Cas can no longer feel the warmth of his soul, no longer see the aura under his skin that identified the righteous man.  But he would know Dean anywhere, in a crowd of a hundred, a thousand. Perhaps even a million, although he would not like to shove his luck that far.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Yeah.  You’re always sorry.  C’mon, Cas.”

 

  o0o

Dean leads him into another room, lined with cold tiles and a mirror.  He shies away from the reflection, his hair too long, his face bruised and muddy, his white shirt filthy.  Human.  Weak.  Fallen. Drowned.

“Sit.”

Cas sits where directed, the stool cold through his trousers.  Dean cuts away the remnants of his shirt, more gently than expected, peeling the fabric from bloody and battered skin.

“Ah man, Cas,” but his voice has only a hint of the expected anger and disappointment, layered with something Cas does not understand.  “What did you do to yourself?”

“I did not…” he falls silent.  He did this all to himself, never mind that it was Metatron who held the blade and the vial.  He did all this, himself.

Dean goes to the sink and runs water, then turns back with a cloth in his hands.  The fabric is wet, warm, and rough against his skin, but Dean’s hands are gentle as he passes the cloth across his face, soothing the bruises, easing a knot of tension under his cheekbones.  Cas struggles to hold onto the knot, the pain of the bruises, the only things holding him to this body, making the _feelings_ inside of him real.  Making _him_ real.

“It’s okay, Cas.”  Dean brings the cloth down over his arms, across his chest, taking away the mud, sweat and blood with gentle, steady strokes.  “Doesn’t look like you’re too bad tore up, just cuts and bruises.  The soup’ll do more to fix you up than stitching, but it’ll feel good to be clean, huh?”

No.  He would never be clean.  The dirt and sweat suited him.  “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Yeah.  Yeah we got that.  C’mon, put this on,” and Dean coaxes him into lifting his arms, pulling a grey sweatshirt over his head, the fleece inside soft and arm against his skin.

Then the scissors were cutting away his pants, baring his calves and knees, and Dean was unlacing the twice-knotted remnants of his shoes, sliding them off his feet and making a sound that might have been dismay.

“Cas.  Cas, socks man.  You gotta wear socks, your feet…”

His feet hurt, but the socks had gotten too stiff with blood, and after a few attempts at washing them out in sinks, he had given up.  He flexes his toes, and winces, the skin torn and blistered.

Dean kneels in front of him, a fresh cloth in his hands.  “C’mon.  Lift up.”  He lifts the left foot and placed it on his denim-clad thigh.  “Looks like you got some busted blisters.  We need to get ‘em clean and then let them dry, make sure they don’t get infected.  You’re gonna have to stay off them for a while, okay?”

“I’m sorry” forms in his mouth, but he clenches his jaw and nods once, instead.  Dean’s touch on his foot made him uneasy, uncomfortable.  Bathing his face, his torso, had been odd but did not trigger the same feelings.  He tried to pull his foot away, but Dean caught him by the heel, stroked warm fingers across his ankle, pulled his foot back down to his thigh and finished washing the blood and dirt away.

Both he and Dean know the symbolism of foot-washing, even if the hunter would never speak it.  You are clean, Dean’s hands tell him.  You are washed of your stain, you are welcome in this house.  But when he looks, he sees only dirt. Only ash and blood ground so deeply into this human skin it will never wash clean.

Hands touch his foot again, cupping the arch with gentle fingers, thumb stroking the instep.  Then he can see only the back of Dean’s head as he bends forward, and –

He closes his eyes against the sensation of a warm mouth against his skin, lips moving as though in prayer, the tongue that formed those words lapping against his overheated skin, moving from instep to ankle, a hand scouting before it, smoothing the skin as his mouth moved upward, fingers soft as they pass the scrapes and bruises, curling under his knee where the fabric of his pants impede further exploration.

Dean’s tongue paints over the bruises as though he could heal them the way an angel’s touch once healed the wounds of his body. His mouth whispers promises without words, even as his body shifts to kneel before Cas, a penitent before an unworthy altar.

“Dean…”  He doesn’t know what he was going to say, shivers under the warmth of the sweatshirt, the blazing heat of Dean’s hands on him, sliding up both legs now, his mouth – Cas’s mind stutters over the fact that Dean’s mouth has left his skin, sliding up the cloth-covered expanse of his thigh.

He is not innocent in knowledge of human carnality.  Observing humanity – observing _Dean_ – left him no room for innocence or ignorance.  But this… this is not carnal knowledge.  Or if it is, it falls under a greater authorship, a deeper purpose.

The touch tickles, and he shifts, realizing after the fact that he’s spread his knees wider, sliding down on the edge of the seat, arching his back for something, for _more_.

The words fall from his mouth, unbidden. “His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem.”

Dean huffs amusement, and rises to the challenge.  “I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go.”  And then his touch descends, hands finding the fastenings of Cas’s pants and sliding them open even as he wets the fabric, mouthing against the eager flesh there.

Cas has thought of this; he is still a fool but not a liar, not now, and he will not deny he has thought of this, imagined himself in the place of those who have graced Dean Winchester’s bed.  Imagination, he discovers, is a weak tool.  His entire body clenches, and his mouth drops open, unable to draw enough breath through his nose.

“Dean…”  His voice is a whine, faint and thready, and his hands rise of their own accord, touching that close-cropped crown as though to offer a blessing, fingertips curving to caress that which he has no right to claim.  He is unworthy, fallen…

And then all thoughts flee when Dean’s fingers slide through the slit of his shorts, drawing him out.  Control fails him, and Cas hits his head against the wall behind him as warmth and wetness engulfs him, fingers of one warm hand curled around the base of his penis, the other reaching to grip his hip, pull him forward.  Heat curls and recedes with the motion of Dean’s mouth, a serpent coiling at the base of his spine, hissing anticipation into his veins until his entire body shakes with need.

“Dean…..”  _I’m sorry,_ he wants to say.  But he isn’t.  He wants this, wants all of this, and more.  Everything he is given, everything he can take.

Another fragment comes to him, and he whispers it, a voice not meant to be heard by others.  “Awake, north wind, and come, south wind! Blow on my garden, that its fragrance may spread everywhere.  Let my beloved come into his garden and taste its choice fruits.”  

Laughter, he discovers, cause Dean’s mouth to tighten, his tongue to do things that send shockwaves up his spine, like the slice of an angel’s blade laying open his Grace.  And then Dean is pulling away, the warmth replaced by the cold air of the Bunker, and he would protest, weep for the loss of that serpent’s hiss, but Dean’s hand is still on his hip, his breath warm against his thigh.

“Cas….I swore, I swore if you only came back, I’d stop being such a dick, I wouldn’t… but I didn’t mean to jump you, man, I just…”

“Dean.”  His voice hurts, his throat sore as though he’s been screaming for days, weeks.  The fingers still resting against Dean’s hair pull him closer, dragging him up off his knees.  “Shut  up.”

It wasn’t poetry, but the feel of Dean’s mouth on his made him feel clean.

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen a few fics where Dean quotes the Bible. While I'm sure that over years of living out of motel rooms, there were days when boredom drove him to read anything left behind, I always thought that if he were to memorize anything, it would be the erotic poetry of the Song of Solomon... 
> 
>  
> 
> (I haven't posted fic-smut since my XF fandom days. Hopefully I haven't lost the knack....)


End file.
